


Communion

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Illusions, Lingerie, Mirrors, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion Sex, Ten Years Later, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-13 08:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Mukuro's smile is pulling wider as he looks down at Chrome. 'Did you think I would leave my sweet Chrome to her own devices?'" Chrome treats herself, and Mukuro provides her a greater indulgence.





	Communion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snkt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snkt/gifts).



Chrome probably shouldn’t have brought the lingerie with her.

She knew that even when she was packing. It’s just a few days away from the base, it’s hardly as if she has to plan for unexpected eventualities; the mission will go smoothly, she’s sure, and then she’ll be back home and can do as she pleases with her newest accessory. She’s been patient for the last month that Mukuro has been gone on an assignment of his own; it’s not as if an extra day or two of waiting is an impossibility. But she  _ has _ been waiting, waiting for a span that feels perversely longer the closer she draws to the conclusion of it; and she may be on a mission but her nights are still her own, after all. She’s likely to have more privacy here in any case: Hibari is ruthless about respecting personal space, she is sure she won’t be hearing from him again until the morning after he wishes her a distantly calm “Good night” at the door to her hotel room. There are always people at the base, Haru and Kyoko with their well-intentioned but embarrassing advice and Ken with his complete lack of consideration for closed doors; and so when Chrome is packing the small bag she will be taking with her, she dedicates a corner at the very bottom to the indulgence of dark lace and vivid ribbons.

It fits well, at least. That was part of her reason for bringing it here; she’s tried it on back at the base, in the cramped confines of a locked bathroom, just to make sure everything sat more or less where it’s supposed to against her body. But here she has the space of her own hotel room, and the expanse of the wall-length mirror in which to see herself; and when she finishes drawing the last of the straps up over her shoulders and turns around to consider her reflection, she finds herself more grateful than she imagined for the privacy to linger over this. The lace is beautiful all on its own -- it was that that drew Chrome to it in the first place, the intricacy of the pattern together with the dark, saturated color of the ribbons winding through the edges to create an illusion of decency worthy of any she has ever seen. At a glance the lace appears opaque, as the shadows of the tracery of it cast the pale of her skin beneath out of seeing; but when Chrome shifts her weight she can see her body shift too, can watch the slide of her hip, the dip of her shoulder, the curve of her breast brought to visibility under the shadows by her motion. Every action flickers a part of her into sight, like the rise of a dream surfacing at the cusp of consciousness; and Chrome can feel herself going warm with pleasure even as her cheeks heat with unavoidable self-consciousness at her appreciation of herself. It’s an indulgence, one she would be painfully embarrassed to be caught at by anyone else; but her hotel door is locked, the space is her own, and that means the only gaze on her body is hers as well.

Chrome stares at herself for a long moment. It’s always a little strange to see herself like this, to linger over the view of her hips and breasts and legs beyond the brief glimpses she gets in the bath or in front of a steam-hazed mirror. Some part of her still thinks of herself as the frightened girl she used to be a full decade ago, as if her self-image froze in place at the same time Mukuro granted her a name and a purpose beyond that of the burden she always was before; but she’s not that girl anymore, even if some part of her will always recall the shape of that saving. The proof is in the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the full weight of her breasts; the shadows of the lingerie against her skin only highlight all those details, those fragments of Chrome’s appearance that seem so much like they belong to someone else’s existence.

Chrome blinks at her reflection, half-startled to see her image’s lashes shift as well; it’s easy to imagine she’s looking at someone else entirely, as if it’s a stranger’s body she’s admiring. She tilts her head, considering her image in that light instead: as something to be appreciated, something to be gazed at with affection, with heat, with desire. She shifts her feet, drawing one back behind her to tip her hips into a different angle, to shift the play of the shadows against her body; when she lifts an arm it’s to reach for the fall of her hair around her shoulders, where she left it untouched after drawing on the lingerie. She likes her hair best of anything else about herself; it’s the color, she thinks, the dark purple of the shadows that cast it to a perfect match to those ribbons outlining the inside line of her cleavage and draping against the angle of her hips. She slides her hands up into the weight of it, drawing the fall of darkness up and back to pile at the back of her head; the motion flexes at her arms and draws the line of her waist long and striking, matching the pale curve of it to that of her throat above the line of her bra straps. She’s missed a few strands of hair in the catch of her fingers, they’re falling around her shoulders and against the back of her neck; but the effect looks deliberate, as if it’s been styled into the appearance of disheveled beauty instead of accidentally brought there. Chrome looks at herself for another long moment, watching the shift of her lashes and the part of her lips, trying to see some part of herself in those flushed cheeks and that pale skin; and then she shuts her eye, blocking off the distraction of her own reflection for a moment as she pushes her fingers up farther into her hair, moving slow so she can savour the slide of the lace catching and tugging just over her skin. There’s the pull of friction against her hip, the slip of delicate fabric catching just under the weight of her breasts; and then something more, the warm weight of a touch against her waist, and Chrome’s breath catches in her chest as the press of fingers slides in to fit against her.

Chrome doesn’t open her eye. She doesn’t need to. If she looks into her reflection she knows what she’ll see: fingers curving over her body, sliding up against the bare line of her waist to trace against the curve of the bra clasping close against her, the familiar line of them hazed over with the purple that shows proof of the illusions she knows as well as she knows the shape of her own body granted back its health by the effect of that same magic. It’ll just be a reminder of the reality of the moment, just serve as proof for how far away Mukuro is in truth, however distant his illusions may stretch; and so Chrome keeps her eye shut, and keeps her head tipped back, and lets herself surrender to the pleasant lie of Mukuro’s presence for a moment.

_ Chrome _ . The voice is as familiar as the touch; it purrs over heat, humming as if Chrome is truly hearing the words resonating against the inside of Mukuro’s chest rather than feeling the weight of them inside the distraction of her own mind.  _ You didn’t tell me you had gone shopping. _

“It was going to be a surprise,” Chrome says aloud. She doesn’t have to speak -- it would be as easy to offer up an illusion of her own to match Mukuro’s -- but it cements her present fantasy; it’s easier to believe that the pressure of fingers drawing up to cup at the weight of her breast and feel out the pattern of the lace over her is truly here if she can hear her own voice in her ears. She presses her lips together and swallows to steady herself before she lets her weight tip back to press against the support of the imagined shoulder she knows is waiting just behind her. “Are you surprised, Mukuro-sama?”

_ Mmm _ . That hum rumbles against Chrome’s back, fitting itself to the line of her spine as if fingers laying themselves close against her; it steals the breath from her lungs as certainly as the friction of those fingers do as they slide up and across her breast to stroke over the ribbon-patterned lace and press against the hardening point of her nipple inside the fabric.  _ I’m pleased _ .

Chrome huffs a breath that pulls the corner of her mouth flickering up onto a smile. “I’m glad,” she says, and turns her head to the side without opening her eye. “I always want to please you, Mukuro-sama.”

_ You always do _ , Mukuro’s voice tells her; and then there’s warmth against Chrome’s mouth, the press of lips so picture-perfect to reality she can’t tell the difference in the response of her skin to the imagination of Mukuro’s touch. It feels like truth, right down to the huff of warmth against her cheek as Mukuro exhales at the press of their lips fitting together. Chrome lets herself go slack against the support behind her -- it’s always easy, to trust Mukuro like this -- and when she lets her hair slip free of her hand it’s only to reach up for Mukuro’s instead, to ghost her fingers in and against the weight of the narrow ponytail the other has grown out over the last several years. She likes to catch it in her fingers, likes to wind the weight of it against her palm; and Mukuro is pulling at her to draw her back flush against his chest, and Chrome is letting him, giving way to the urging without so much as a thought of protest. Mukuro’s jacket presses against her back, the details of the illusion so precisely done she can feel the separate fibers of the contact sliding against her; and his free hand is coming up too, his fingers sliding in to settle against the dip of her hip and wander down against the top edge of the ribbon marking out the edge of her panties. Chrome’s breath catches, her legs tremble with the impulse to move, to arch up and into Mukuro’s touch against her; and Mukuro presses closer at once, as if he’s reading the thoughts straight from her mind as clearly as he does when he used to step inside the shape of her body and claim it for his own. He hasn’t done that in long years -- he hasn’t needed to, since his escape from Vindice Prison -- and as much as Chrome appreciates the possibilities offered by two physical bodies instead of one there’s something exquisite about the intimacy of it, about the thought of Mukuro’s control winding into her thoughts the same way his power created a new life for her broken body. Chrome catches a breath, quivering with the thought as heat prickles down her spine and pools low in the depths of her abdomen, just above the slide of Mukuro’s fingers over her, and against her mouth there’s a rush of air, a laugh so glancing it barely manages to take voice at all.

_ Chrome _ , Mukuro’s voice seems to say.  _ You’re as beautiful as ever.  _ There’s a press of lips against Chrome’s, the drag and friction of a kiss lingering against her mouth; and the hands on her are moving, sliding in to wander across the span of her body laid bare but for the elegance of the lingerie clasping against her skin. Mukuro’s fingers tighten against her breast, his palm cradles the soft weight of her against his hold; his hand at her hip slides down, his fingers drawing across the edge of her panties to press the fabric close against her body, to work the pattern of the lace to a glow of friction against Chrome’s skin. Chrome’s legs tremble, her breath catches, but she doesn’t open her eye, doesn’t give voice to any kind of a protest; she just lets herself go slack against the support of Mukuro’s illusory form behind her as those steady fingers slide in to press against the heat between her thighs, gentle and certain at once as her body rises to warmth in immediate answer.

_ It’s a shame I wasn’t able to return in time to meet you at headquarters, _ Mukuro murmurs against Chrome’s ear.  _ At least we can make up for it now _ .  _ They do say anticipation adds spice to any interlude _ . There’s another shift against Chrome’s skin, the press of a second pair of hands sliding over her; and a third, starting low at her ankles, as Mukuro’s illusions sweep out to lay claim to the expanse of her skin. Chrome tenses against the friction, feeling her body going hot in answer as fingers slide up her thighs, as a touch dips over her ribcage and comes up to catch under the bottom edge of her bra; but when she takes a breath it’s to steady herself against the rush of heat in her, and when she moves it’s to shake her head in a motion no less certain for how minimal it is.

“No,” Chrome says. The word is strange on her tongue, unfamiliar even now, after all this time to grow accustomed to the shape of it; it’s the self-consciousness that comes with refusal more than arousal that flushes her cheeks to heat as she turns her head in to press close against the side of Mukuro’s neck, to fit her face against the line of the other’s throat. “I just want you, Mukuro-sama.” Her hand at her side draws back, her fingers reach out to lay claim to Mukuro’s hip; when her grip tightens she can feel the force of it up the whole of her spine as her shoulder flexes with the effort. “As if you were really here with me now.”

There’s a rustle of sound through the air, a huff as of laughter just against Chrome’s hair.  _ As you desire _ , Mukuro says, and the extra hands evaporate, giving way to leave just the two that began, the one cradling between Chrome’s thighs and the other working gently over the curve of her breast inside the lace of her bra.  _ I do have a question, though. _ There’s a shift against Chrome’s cheek, a gust of warmth over her mouth as Mukuro leans in towards her; Chrome whimpers in the back of her throat and lifts her head, following the promise of Mukuro’s lips as surely as a flower follows the draw of the sun through the sky. She can feel the curve of Mukuro’s smile against her mouth, can almost taste the other’s words forming near her lips. “What do you mean,  _ as if _ ?”

Chrome opens her eye at once. It’s an impulse, a reflex more than conscious thought, as if the sound of Mukuro’s voice is laying itself down the length of her spine to take gentle control of her body as he used to. Her vision focuses, clarifying on dark hair, a curving smile, a familiar profile: and Mukuro, as he truly is, absent any shimmering halo to speak to illusion as he turns his head to smile down at her.

“Oh,” Chrome gasps, her voice rushing out of her by force more than intent. “Mukuro-sama, you’re. You’re here.”

“Indeed I am,” Mukuro says. His smile is pulling wider as he looks down at Chrome. “Did you think I would leave my sweet Chrome to her own devices?” His hands tighten against Chrome’s body, his pull -- real, not illusory at all -- urges Chrome back against the span of his chest. Chrome gasps, her knees going weak with the heat that rushes through her at the force; but Mukuro’s grip holds her steady, his hands are bracing her with unflinching strength against his body. “I wanted to see you in reality.”

“Mukuro-sama,” Chrome says: meaningless, incoherent, everything she ever really needs to say. Against her mouth Mukuro’s smile widens, his teeth catching the bright of the light.

“Yes, Chrome,” he says. “I’m here” and he’s ducking in, his mouth catching warm at Chrome’s own, and Chrome’s lashes are fluttering shut to haze over her vision again. It’s too much, to keep gazing up at the elegant beauty of Mukuro’s face so near to her own; and the heat is too overwhelming, too incandescent with brilliance in every part of her body. Mukuro’s mouth is against hers, the shift of his lips upon hers reality and not illusion; and his hands, too, where his fingers are sliding up and inside the lace of her bra to wander across her breast and brush against the hard point of her nipple, and between her thighs, where his palm is pressing gentle friction to work the texture of the lace against her clit. Chrome’s breath is catching, her back is arching, her knees are tipping to angle in; and Mukuro’s arms tighten around her, Mukuro’s grip braces her steady against him.

“Come, my dear Chrome,” he murmurs, and his voice is low with heat, the words dark as the shading of his hair falling across his back. “Let me see you as you were meant to be seen.” And his hands pull, his grip urging Chrome in and back, and Chrome obeys, walking backwards according to Mukuro’s demand without the least thought of concern for where she’s going. She gave all her faith to Mukuro long ago, along with the course of her life from that point on; this is a simple thing, to let him have the guidance of her feet as he moves them across the hotel room towards the soft of the waiting bed. They cross the floor together, their feet moving so smoothly Chrome thinks they may be sharing the tread of a single set of footfalls; and then Mukuro tips Chrome in and sideways, and they’re going back over the sheets as one, Mukuro turning to catch Chrome against the brace of his arms as he lands them atop the mattress.

“This is lovely,” Mukuro purrs, offering the words against the outside curve of Chrome’s ear as he glides his fingers up over the lace of her panties to pin them close against her skin. Chrome shudders with the sensation, her knees angling and her thighs trembling with reflexive response to the weight of Mukuro’s touch on her, but Mukuro just draws up towards her hip, following the path laid out by the ribbon winding through the lace more than the reaction he’s drawing from Chrome’s body against his. “It’s almost deserving of your beauty.” His palm slides in and down, his fingertips wind underneath the edge of the lace; Chrome’s breath catches, her back arching to curve her up and against the weight of Mukuro’s hand pressing close against her breast. “Did you think of me when you bought these?”

Chrome has to gasp for air; it feels like the room has gone hot, as if Mukuro’s illusions have laid claim to her to turn all the space around her to steam she’s breathing into her chest with every inhale. “I always think of you, Mukuro-sama.”

Mukuro’s laugh is deep as the ocean and as warm as a touch. “Oh Chrome,” he says, the words falling just against the curve of Chrome’s throat. “My most precious Chrome.” And he’s kissing against her skin, his lips warm and gentle and real against Chrome’s neck, and Chrome is tipping her head down to the sheets and letting her eye shut, giving up the distraction of vision for the immediacy of Mukuro’s mouth on her skin. Mukuro’s fingers against her slide, his touch draws free and away; and then he’s moving, pulling back and returning as quickly, so Chrome barely has a moment to catch a breath before Mukuro’s touch is urging her back to lie over the sheets, before Mukuro’s knee is coming in to fit between the trembling heat of her thighs.

“I’m glad I came to visit you,” Mukuro tells her. He’s leaning in over Chrome now, his shadow casting shifting patterns across the pale of her body; his hair is sliding down over his shoulder, the weight of it slipping to catch at the strap of Chrome’s bra and puddle to a loop against the weight of her own. Chrome wonders if anyone could tell one from the other, if the strands of her hair are as indistinguishable from Mukuro’s as her self feels, sometimes, even now when her body has been no one’s but her own for years of independence. Mukuro leans in over her, his lashes dipping to cast his mismatched eyes into the dark of shadow. “It’s always best to have us both here together.” Chrome ducks her head into a nod of submission as much as agreement; against her hip Mukuro’s fingers are trailing over her panties again, his touch sliding over the lace as he presses down between her thighs, just over where he’s bracing himself between her legs. “It feels so  _ good _ to have you truly here with me.”

“Mukuro--” Chrome starts, opening her eye to look up at Mukuro leaning over her; and then Mukuro’s fingers press in against her, his thumb pins down against the heat of her clit, and her back arches, her body crests up towards him. “ _ Ah _ ,” she gasps, and her voice is breaking now, opening up as if into an infinity of sound, a new realm of space granted her under the press of Mukuro’s touch. “ _ Mukuro-sama _ .”

“Yes,” Mukuro purrs, his fingers pressing in against Chrome, his touch sliding against her. “I know.” He lingers for a moment, stirring Chrome’s breathing to speed in her chest, rushing the pace of her heartbeat under the lace of her ribbon-patterned bra; and then he draws his hand away so he can reach up for the front of his pants instead, so he can draw open the fastenings holding the clothing close against his skin. “My dear Chrome.” His fingers work, his clothes come open; and Chrome is reaching out, her usual reticence forgotten for the heat in her veins and the want trembling in her fingers. Her hand catches at Mukuro’s hip, her fingers press in almost atop the other’s hand pulling his clothes open, and Mukuro purrs a laugh and lets his hand fall to Chrome’s hip again to press against the little clothing she is still wearing. His fingers slide down, marking out a path against the angle of her hip and down to the inside of her thigh like he’s following the line laid out by the deep purple ribbon pressing to Chrome’s skin; for her part Chrome is reaching into the open front of Mukuro’s pants, slipping in past the loose fall of fabric and fastenings to lay her touch close to the heat of the other’s arousal, to press her fingers to the proof of the desire she’s brought out of him. Mukuro huffs a breath as Chrome’s fingers touch him, his lashes dip down to shadow over the color of his eyes; but he’s smiling, too, the soft one that pulls at the corner of his mouth that Chrome never sees him give to anyone else, and his fingers are working over her clothing too, his touch catching to pull the lacy clasp of Chrome’s panties sideways and away from her body.

“Like this,” Mukuro says, that one statement simple and complete; and he shifts his weight, moving to bring his other knee in to settle between Chrome’s alongside the first. Chrome lets her legs open up like the petals of a flower giving way to the warmth of the sun; her fingers slide in around Mukuro’s heat-full cock to draw him forward and free of his clothes. Mukuro is moving as quickly as she is, his body coming in to fit against hers as if he’s the one pressing her legs wide, as if he knows what she’s going to do before she’s even taken the action, but it’s Chrome who braces her heels against the sheets to tilt her hips up and make a suggestion of the heat of her body for Mukuro over her. Mukuro’s touch presses her clothing aside, Chrome’s fingers urge him in closer, and when they move Chrome can’t tell one from the other, can’t say if it’s her own actions or Mukuro’s that bring their bodies sliding together. It hardly makes a difference in any case: because Mukuro is moving over her, his cock sliding free of her hold to press in and part the wet heat of her entrance, and Chrome is giving way to the force as quickly as he moves, offering up a breathless gasp of heat at the feel of Mukuro moving forward and into her. Her lashes flutter, her vision hazes out of focus as her lips part on the heat of it, on the satisfaction, on the  _ rightness _ of having Mukuro sliding forward to fit against the give of her body. Mukuro lets his hold on her drawn-aside panties go, reaching up to brace himself alongside her waist instead as he rocks forward to press himself deep inside her, and Chrome is left to shudder beneath him, her cheeks flushing to heat in perfect time with the tremor running through her spread-open legs.

“Ah,” Mukuro sighs. His voice is deeper than usual, resonant with the full force of satisfaction; Chrome can feel it hum against the back of her thoughts, as if she’s hearing it in her own throat rather than carried from someone else’s lips to her ears. “Chrome.” His hips move, his cock slides; Chrome’s breath sticks, her knees press close against Mukuro’s legs. “You are always so beautiful.”

“Mukuro-sama,” Chrome whimpers, hearing her voice breaking in the back of her throat; and she’s reaching up and out, lifting her hands to catch against the back of Mukuro’s neck and urge him in and over her. Mukuro leans in at once, moving as rapidly as if he’s acting on the same impulse guiding Chrome’s motions; his chest presses close against Chrome’s, the soft of his shirt catches and clings to the lace of her bra. Chrome gasps at the friction, her back arches to meet Mukuro over her, to press as close as she can get, and Mukuro lifts his hand from the bed to slide in and against her back to hold her against him. His fingers weight against the back of her bra, his palm lies warm against the flush of her skin, and Chrome tips her head in to press near against the line of Mukuro’s neck and hide her face against the dip of his collar. She can taste him on her lips when she breathes in, can fill her lungs with the impossible familiarity of Mukuro’s presence, that existence that she has known for so long and yet that is still so brilliant in its novelty; it’s as heady now as it ever is, dizzying and too-much and breathtaking even with Mukuro’s hold on her to brace her in place. Chrome catches over a breath, hearing the sound of it hiccup in the back of her throat, and when she shifts it’s to lift her legs to catch around Mukuro’s hips, to hold herself the closer to the other’s movement.

Chrome can feel Mukuro’s purring laugh against her chest as much as she can feel it. “Ah Chrome,” Mukuro says, his words falling warm against the tangle of her hair. “Have you learned to take what you want yet?” His hand at her back slides up, giving up the extra support he had been offering in exchange for the drag of his fingers over Chrome’s skin and up over the outline of her ribcage; Chrome’s breath catches in answer, sticking in her throat as if it’s tangling itself around Mukuro’s fingertips as they draw up and over her bare skin to brush featherlight at the bottom edge of her bra. Her thighs flex, her arms around Mukuro’s neck tighten; Mukuro’s laugh is hot at her ear, his fingers are close against her skin. “Like this?” His touch pushes up, his fingers dip under, and Chrome moans in the back of her throat, the sound low and wanting instead of the plaintive whimper she usually has to offer. She feels like her voice is dropping off a cliff, as if Mukuro’s touch on her is leading her down to unfathomed depths from which she is happy to never surface, and Mukuro’s hand is pushing up, urging the weight of her bra away from her skin to make space for his fingers instead as he reaches to cup at the weight of her breast and catch her nipple against the tips of his fingers. He lingers there for a moment, toying with Chrome as if he’s absorbed in his own entertainment, as if it’s his goal to draw her breath out of her control entirely; and then his thumb slides, Chrome’s back arches, and her clinging hold goes tight, her body straining up to meet Mukuro’s as she gives up the whole of her breath in a sudden rush of heat.

“Mukuro-sama,” she says; but there’s no pleading on her voice now, no hesitation on the words. Chrome feels undone, like who she is is giving way, as if the illusion of fragility is melting under the heat Mukuro is spilling into her to leave something bright and brilliant that she never knew to look for beneath. She opens her eye, her fingers slide up to fist in Mukuro’s hair. “ _ More _ .”

Mukuro’s laugh is dark as his hair, dark as his illusions, dark as the ribbons winding through the lace of Chrome’s lingerie. “Yes,” he purrs against her hair. “Like that.” And he’s moving, suddenly, before Chrome has a chance to so much as catch her breath to brace herself: his fingers against her breast, his thighs pressing between hers, his cock thrusting deep into her. Chrome arches under him, her breath spilling from her lips in a moan that drops to depths she’s never heard from herself before, to such a volume she would worry about her neighbors if the hotel walls weren’t so solid; but Mukuro keeps moving, falling into a smooth, elegant rhythm over her while his hand pressing to her breast braces her in place. Chrome tightens her legs around his hips, tightens her hands in his hair, gasps for breath against the side of his neck; and she feels reality giving way, as if Mukuro is rewriting her experience of this moment as easily as he wields the illusions that catch the minds of those less practiced with them than Chrome herself. Her awareness of her surroundings is disintegrating, her grasp of the present giving way even as her fingers tighten in Mukuro’s hair; and Chrome is happy to let them go, happy to hand over her reality in exchange for the man who is her lord, her god, her lover. She shuts her eye again -- she doesn’t need to see to know who it is with her, over her, in her -- and when she breathes in it’s with the taste of worship against her tongue.

Chrome doesn’t know how long they stay like that. It’s too much to hold to a sense of time, an impossibility to orient herself against the mundanities of a world that cares for time and space; it’s enough that Mukuro is here, and she is here, that they are together in this moment. Her blood runs hot, her breath catches to flame; and Mukuro stays with her, his hand pressing to her skin like he’s matching his fingerprints to its texture and his body working to a smooth rhythm as if calibrated to stir Chrome’s breath to heat. Chrome hears herself panting against Mukuro’s hair, feels herself shaking under him; but still she holds to the edge, her whole body tense but awaiting some sign, some permission, some allowance from that voice that has owned her ever since he gave her her name. She gasps, and she quivers, and she waits; and then Mukuro huffs a breath at her hair, and “ _ Chrome _ ” pulls hot against her skin, as if he’s drawing it free from the depths of his chest. Chrome tenses, her whole body pulling taut in answer to Mukuro’s voice; and then:

“Come,” Mukuro breathes, and Chrome’s head goes back, her lips part, and she topples over the edge into pleasure, her whole body spasming with the relief of the orgasm that rushes through her in obedient surrender to Mukuro’s voice. Her knees are shaking, her toes are curling, her throat is taut; but her breath is absent, her lips voiceless for the silent tremors of heat that rush over and through and around her, as if she’s being pulled down into some endless, impossible ocean of satisfaction. She hears Mukuro catch a breath, hears the sound of his voice skipping high over the strain of his own pleasure; and he’s following her down, the rhythm of his movement matching hers as if they are truly the mirror images they sometimes seem to be. His hips jerk forward once, twice, stuttering through movement as his rhythm gives way to the demands of relief; and Chrome holds onto him, body and heart and soul, and lets herself melt to the force of Mukuro’s heat inside her.

It’s a loss, when Mukuro’s breath smoothes again and he collects himself enough to draw away from Chrome’s body him. Chrome can’t hold back the whimper in her throat as Mukuro’s cock draws out of her; it feels like an absence, as if she is being left as hollow as she felt before her accident, before Mukuro’s arrival grants her strength and stability and value. But Mukuro isn’t gone, isn’t evaporating as he often does, when there’s no more than illusion to hold him; his laughter ruffles her hair, his skin presses warm to her own.

“I’m just going to start the shower,” he says, murmuring the words against Chrome’s neck before he presses the warmth of a kiss to her lips. “I’m not going anywhere, my sweet Chrome.” Chrome ducks her head, surrendering to a nod even as she has to struggle to ease her hold on Mukuro’s neck, and he draws back and away, sliding over the bed to get to his feet once more. Chrome lets her hands fall to her own body instead to catch and tug at the edges of her bra and panties; she’ll just be taking them off in a moment anyway to join Mukuro in the bathroom, but the impulse to tidy herself is more than she can resist. She pushes to sit up on the sheets, lifts her hand to straighten the fall of her hair as Mukuro is pulling his pants back into place and refastening the front of them; it’s just as Chrome is taking a breath to compose herself that there’s a knock at the door, sharp and certain enough to steal her breath as she looks up towards the entrance.

“ _ Chrome _ .” The voice is familiar, at least in sound; Chrome knows better than most how easily voices can be feigned, but she’s never heard the flat determination of that tone from anyone except Hibari Kyoya before. “ _ Are you awake? _ ”

“Ah,” Chrome gasps, her heart racing as she looks to find some more appropriate clothing with which to cover herself. “Just a minute!” She pushes to the edge of the bed, pulling her hair into a semblance of order as she moves to get to her feet; but Mukuro is already moving, striding forward across the room before she can lift a hand to stop him. Mukuro reaches for the door, his fingers weight at the handle; and then there’s a flicker of indigo, a blur of color, and Chrome is staring at her own shape as the door comes open.

“Yes?” Mukuro says; but it’s her voice on his lips, her face he’s wearing. “What’s the trouble?”

“I got a call--” Hibari starts; and then stops, instantly, his voice cutting off as if with a knife as he stares at Mukuro’s illusion. From her position amidst the shadows on the bed Chrome can see his forehead crease, can see his mouth draw down on a frown. “You’re not Chrome. Who are you?”

Mukuro’s laugh is a low, purring thing, warm enough to spark flame through even Chrome’s satiated blood. At the doorway she can see Hibari’s eyes widen in the moment before the illusion of herself melts away to leave Mukuro as he truly is lounging against the edge of the doorway.

“I always said you’d make a fine illusionist,” he says, with that knife-edge under his tone he always offers to Hibari. “You could be even better if you made use of your Mist flame, you know.”

“ _ You _ ,” Hibari hisses. He doesn’t even sound surprised. “I’m going to bite you to death.”

“I really don’t think you will,” Mukuro says; and then he’s pushing out into the hallway, ducking past Hibari with such speed even the other’s whip-quick reflexes can’t keep up. Chrome sees Hibari’s head turn, sees his teeth bare on a snarl of fury, and then he’s moving, bolting down the hallway after Mukuro and away. The door is left to fall shut on its own, swinging to latch gently into place; and Chrome is left alone in the room, gazing at the door and feeling inexplicably bereft. She blinks hard, ducks her head and lifts a hand to push a lock of her hair back over her shoulder, and then:

“He really  _ would _ do better with use of his full potential,” Mukuro’s voice says, and Chrome is twisting at once to look back towards the bathroom, where Mukuro is standing in the doorway and gazing at the shut door to the room. “He’d be better at seeing through illusions if he let himself admit he could notice them in the first place.”

“Mukuro-sama,” Chrome breathes. “You--that was…?”

Mukuro looks back to her. His smile is a slow, savouring thing, spreading across the whole of his face to glow brilliance behind his eyes.

“Of course,” he says. “I could hardly leave my sweet Chrome alone for the evening, even for the fun of a fight.” He straightens from the doorway and comes forward towards the bed where Chrome is still kneeling. “You didn’t see the illusion?” Chrome shakes her head, struck silent by the much-welcomed surprise; Mukuro’s smile just pulls wider as he comes in towards the edge of the bed so he can lean in and reach out towards her.

“Well,” he says, his tone that of an indulgent teacher, his touch the easy grace of a lover. “At least you know better than to rely on your eyes alone for truth.” And he ducks in to press the angle of his smile to the part of her lips, fitting them together like two halves of one whole. Chrome stares at Mukuro’s hair, at the dark of his lashes, at the pale of his cheek; and then she feels his fingers shift in her hair, and feels the huff of his breathing against her skin, and her lashes dip, her focus drawn inexorably by the proof of reality here with her now.

Chrome has always believed in Mukuro more than anything else.


End file.
